Family First
by TeacupsOfCocaine
Summary: 150th Hunger Games SYOT: Parents are reaped to choose which of their children will go into the Games. SYOT, closed!
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games, all rights and legally-schtuff are owned by the brilliant authoress Suzanne Collins.**

"Ma'am, you're on."

I stepped through the silk curtains and onto the stage of PanemCentre. Everybody in the Capitol was considered for my position as the announcer for the Quarter Quell, but I was the one who got picked. It was a combination of my dazzling charisma, my role as a quadruple-threat performer, the fact that I'm the heiress to the Ciao Bella makeup empire, my recent pink diamond skin implants, and the fact that I am the personification of what every Capitolite wants to be. But hey, I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth.

It was actually platinum.

The crowds roared as I stepped up to the microphone. I took a deep breath as a flurry of terror went through me: what if my outfit wasn't as hot as I thought it was? What if my jewel implants reflected the light and blinded somebody? What if I didn't take as much of the food-erasing pills and liquids as I needed? What if the size of my breast-implants restricted my workout routine and I wasn't as svelte as I thought? For a brief, horrifying moment, my ears deceived me and I thought the crowd was booing me. _But hey_, I thought. _I'm just to fabulous for people to hate_.

"150 years ago, Panem rose from the ashes, broke through the shackles of war, as our ancestors put our country back together, district by district, home by home, brick by brick. To make sure nobody would try and break us down again, the Hunger Games was made, to remind us of where we came from and remember that we are not bound by our past mistakes, but are defined by every stone we lay on the path to victory." I stepped back for a second, letting the words sink in. I tried to make a bold, patriotic face, but I didn't really what patriotic meant anyways, so I threw on my winning smile, showing everybody my pearly whites. Or, technically, my quartz-y whites, since I had white quartz implanted into my teeth.

"And alas, we have made it to our 150th Hunger Games, also known as the 6th Quarter Quell, an event that happens every 25 years when a wrench,"(what the fuck is a wrench?),"in the system to remind us of how far we've come. This Quarter Quell will be one of the best yet."

A little girl in a white dress that had been standing a little way behind me walked up, holding an old wooden box with a carving that was so old-fashioned that my grandma wouldn't even touch that pattern with a ten foot pole. I lifted it out of her hands, knowing that it was filled with the aging yellow envelopes that held the secrets to the Quarter Quells, and placed it on the table next to me. One by one, I went through all of the five Quells that had taken place. Finally, I pulled the one that was labeled 150 out of the box.

"To remind us all that the faults of our ancestors have bound us to our current circumstances, parents will be reaped and will be forced to choose among their children of age for who will be sent into the Games."

**So, hello, I have done 3 or 4 syots in the past, but they were all deleted due to my lack of inspiration and a major case of writer's block. My only requests for submission (PM only) is to please not submit any Mary Sues, to please make interesting familial structures (nuclear family, orphans, adopted, foster care, blended family, cared for not by parents, raised in training center without parents, young pregnancy, runaways, gay parents, ect.), and that backstories be fairly dark and not very enviable. While excess tragedy is discouraged, Panem isn't much of a budding metropolis in the districts. So, alas just fill out the form and we'll go from there. Thank you guys! And as for any guarantee that I will finish this story, the sadistic technicolor bunnies in my dreams said so.**

**Name:**

**Gender:**

**Age:**

**District:**

**Personality:**

**Appearance:**

**Reputation in district:**

**Family:**

**Friends:**

**Why parents chose them:**

**Token:**

**Hobbies:**

**Strengths:**

**Weaknesses:**

**Weapon of choice:**

**Romance:**

**Allies:**

**Usual style of dress:**

**Other:**

**Thank you!**


	2. Tribute List

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games.**

District 1:

Sereina Sinhalite

Red Diamond

District 2:

Calypso Mina

Kahl Dupree

District 3:

Sarah Smith

Daniel Reyes

District 4:

Katherine Arch

Sean Howard

District 5:

Takako Yeoh

Kiko Shigma

District 6:

Clarice Laveau

Morgan Balkarion

District 7:

Katerina Lytt

Ray Garrod

District 8:

Jude Davis

Damian Lyles

District 9:

Lani Mater-Smith

Mohammed "Moo" Villasenor

District 10:

Feather Hyatt

Wesley Winters

District 11:

Alexis Firgrove

Brett Callox

District 12:

Cara Heathrow

Michael Griffin

**A/N: Please submit, all of these spaces need to be filled in before I can do any writing, so submissions are greatly appreciated (i.e. the bunnies say they'll turn gray and bite me if I don't get many tributes)**


	3. Family First

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games.**

Not all facets of the Capitol shine.

It's not all glitz and glamour. Not everybody wears designer clothes. Not everybody lives in a mansion or a trendy penthouse apartment. Not everybody is rich and lives without a care of what will find them tomorrow. Not everybody goes to fancy parties or eat until we need to throw up to stuff more in. Yes, there are the billionaires that live in the center of the Capitol and implants precious jewels into their skin and synthesize their voice into a piece of music with words that have no meaning to them, like love and charity and strength.

No, the side of the Capitol that nobody sees, even the Capitolites themselves, is where my people live. The Edge is where all the fuck-ups congregate. We're the ghetto of the Capitol that everybody ignores, that is never seen but if we choose to be loud fuck yeah we are heard. CapitolNet tries to keep the districts silent and show us that they're all living in harmony, voluntarily doing hard labor, and that nobody dares to think of how dismal they are.

The only reason I stay silent is for the 6-month-old baby boy in my arms.

I know that tomorrow there will be mothers and fathers all over Panem that will be forced to part ways with their child. I couldn't imagine parting with my son: he was all I had right now. I had to prostitute myself to not starve, after my family deemed me the black sheep and married me off to an abusive wannabe actor. He was a vile wretch of a man, and I ran away so that I could raise my son in a home filled with love, even if that home was in a back alley. But this is home, where everybody is in an unfortunate situation, but we all care for each other.

Sighing, I did a little prayer to a god I didn't believe in for all the parents that have lost or will lose their child to the Hunger Games.

It will always be family first.

**I only need five more tributes and then the Games can begin! Please submit soon, so that my technicolor bunnies don't become transfixed by the lovely smell of elk bacon.**


	4. District 1 Reapings

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games.**

Serenia Sinhalite:

There is nobody that I love more than my sister.

Jadie and I seemed to be complete opposites at first glance. My black hair countered her blonde; her slenderness stood against my athleticism; her gentle nature balanced out my firecracker persona. We stood in front of our room's floor-length mirror and got a quick look at ourselves. Our dad, the Mayor, always made sure that we were presented as elegant young ladies, complete with designer dresses and expensive jewels, and don't get me wrong, there's a time for dressing up.

It's just that my brain didn't care for being fancy this morning.

But, alas, my personal preference had little power today. It wasn't just the reapings: today was the reapings of the Quarter Quell, in which parents choose which of their kids are going into the Games. If our family was reaped, it was going to be my brother, Oppy or I: him because he was the only male and me because I had the most training. Our family, led by Granite the Mayor and Bixie the Bitch, would sit on a raised platform on the stage, which simultaneously makes me feel regal and makes me blush that boys may look up my skirt. I know, we were supposed to be the most aristocratic district, but there was always going to be a few perverts in the mix.

Jadie hugged me; the white lace of her circle skirt and sweater brushed against the strapless dark green silk cocktail dress that went down to my mid thigh. It felt a little odd: she usually came up to my shoulder, but, due to my five inch heels against her two, I had to bend my knees to have a proper hug. Jadie gave the best hugs ever. She was actually one of my few real friends, along with some kids from school and training and Red. Our mother, well, she's always been weird towards all of us kids: she was almost obsessed with our whole image of being a perfect nuclear family, and, well, let's just say the only nuclear part about our family was my mother's temper. She showered the 12-year-old Jadie and 14-year-old Oppy with love all over their green eyes and blonde curls, and, since I've been small, I knew I wasn't her favorite. But I stopped feeling bad about it (or at least told myself I did) when I realized for myself that Jadie and Oppy weren't perfect in her eyes either. Oppy was a violin prodigy, which, while very awe-inspiring and impressive, was not a desired career in our district. Jadie was (in my somewhat biased opinion) the nicest person I've had the pleasure to meet, but, according to Bixie, nice doesn't win the Hunger Games.

My father came in with a box. I hated to act as though I was spoiled, but the only thing that could be in there was jewelry. My sister and I flocked around him, but the years of giggling and jumping around doing a happy dance was gone. He popped open the box, and inside laid 2 necklaces, 3 rings, 4 bracelets, 3 sets of earrings, 3 eyebrow studs, and an ear chain.

"Mother's probably going to kill me with those eye-daggers she'll be sending," I quipped. A flicker of something passed his face, a twinge of an emotion that I couldn't identify. I masked my concern into the box of jewels as dad placed it on two pallets with gloved hands and sorted it into two piles, one for me and one for my sister. I had a necklace, 2 rings, a bracelet, 2 sets of earrings, the eyebrow studs, and the chain. Since I had turned 16 a few months ago, my dad had been making strides into transitioning me from a young girl into a young woman, which included letting me make choices into how I acted, dressed, and letting me choose my own friends. I was still doing Career training and carrying average grades in school, but it was very refreshing to make choices for the first time in my life.

I knew that I had at least a few millions dollars worth of gems on me. My best friend, Red, was the heir to Diamond Jewels Inc., and, combined with the fact that they were generally well off, I was used to being in the presence of very valuable items. I was named after the rare jewel that was serendibite. According to my dad, I was named for the rarity, elegance, and mystery that came from my late aunt, who looked like me when she was a teenager, while my mother said it was due to an underlying evil that she could sense since I was conceived, but I've learned over the course of my life that Bixie the Bitch is not a mom, only a mother.

Thanking our dad with a tight hug, Jadie and I rushed downstairs, grabbing a fistful of grapes in one hand and a sweet pastry in the other, with Jadie grabbing a bottle of orange juice. I could hear mother coming downstairs, so Jadie and I decided to forego sitting at the table and instead eat on the front steps. Folding our legs underneath us, we sunk onto the top step and had our impromptu breakfast.

"Hey Serenia," I heard as Red climbed up the steps, popping a grape in his mouth while holding out three oranges in return, two of which my sister and I devoured like vultures. Red had never been into Career Training, in part due to his obligation to the family business. He knew everything to know about jewels, from cut to color to their chemical structures. We seemed to be polar opposites, with my street smarts and his book smarts, but the contrast of my rebellion and his rationality balanced out quite nicely. He also fit into the tight-knit group of me and my siblings by being able to restrain my outlandishness, bringing Jadie out of her shell by viewing her as an equal, and letting Oppy, the tortured artist, break down his walls to reveal his charming and goofy witticisms.

Once Oppy joined us, looking dapper in a light gray suit but a bit haggard with his floppy blonde curls and bags under his eyes, we made our way into the square. There were a lot of people there already, so, once we checked in, the four of us hung out by the front of the stage. Red commented on all of the jewels between us, from my painite eyebrow studs to Oppy's onyx cufflinks. Considering that his family had sold or donated pretty much every gem in the district, he knew good gems from fake gems. Personally, I thought they were all pretty, but that's all they were to me: pretty rocks.

The noise around us increased to a near-deafening roar as the square filled up. Jadie and Oppy linked elbows and went to our family's platform, but I stayed back for a minute, grabbing Red's arm.

"To victory," I said, holding out my hand to him. This was a common phrase on reaping day in our district, as we wished every year for tributes that would bring us just to that. He took my hand and, instead of doing the usually handshake with a curt nod, we did our secret handshake that we made in kindergarten 12 years ago. For years there was an overwhelming sense of being completely platonic, but now I still loved him as a friend, which seems to live next to all the other feelings I had for him. There wasn't any point though: I was going to go back to my training and he would go back to his rocks and our paths will be like asymptotes: having come as close as possible but diverging into parallels that are bound to never meet again.

So, to say goodbye to the chance that he would even like me as anything other than a sister, I gave him a kiss on the cheek and bid him adieu.

I told myself I was okay with it, but knowing that I would probably never push his thick-framed glasses up onto his nose.

That hurt more than anything.

Red Diamond:

The parents who named their Capitol children should be crucified and set on fire.

I'll be the first to admit it, but I'm quite dramatic. However, who would choose to name their child Tenderfoot? This was the unfortunate name of this year's district 1 escort. Her voice implied that she had either been huffing aerosols, was suffering from sinuses, was choking on those candies with holes in the middle, or had spent her childhood on a diet of helium and baby powder. Her clothes were white to match her skin and eyes and hair, which gave her an appearance that looked either ghostly or like she was dipped in flour (possibly both).

Her annoying voice boomed throughout the square, but I had a feeling that if Ms. Tenderfoot didn't have a microphone, that she would be no louder than a mouse. The Treaty of Treason was said, the explanation of the Quarter Quell announced, and the pleasantries with the Mayor, Mr. Granite Sinhalite were exchanged. Within minutes of the event starting, she pranced over to the pink bowl and pinched out a slip of paper that read:

"Mr. Granite and Mrs. Bixie Sinhalite."

The mayor wasn't even out of his seat by the time Serenia's mother was up there. I knew she would pick Serenia, but I just hoped to hell that she would find mercy and pick Jadie. "Please," I whispered. "Please not Serenia."

But alas, my pleas were nothing but words blown into the wind.

My only ally in the district, my best friend who knew almost all of my secrets and was there with me through thick and thin, through the bullies and the adoring girls with hidden agendas, through the pranks and the craziness that she always dragged me into: she was going into the Hunger Games. I cursed myself: if not this year, it would've been the next.

"Red," I heard my mom calling. Pushing up my glasses and sitting up straight, I looked around to find her comforting face. Was there something going on? Was she in danger? Where was she?

On the stage.

I felt like I wasn't even walking. I barely realized that my feet were moving, that I wasn't sitting in my seat. Eyes turned to catch a glance in slow motion, jaws dropping in shock and recognition. I wasn't going into the Games. That would be absurd, right? They walked be into the Justice Building, each shoulder allocated to a Peacekeeper with a grip like ice water. I felt like I was both freezing and on fire and found it impossible that my mother was crying on my shoulder, with my dad holding me tight. They were as speechless as I was.

Serenia and I were ushered to the train station. Her dark blue eyes were stained red. She barely ever cried: I had only seen her sobbing when her sister was struck in the foot with an ax on Jadie's first (and last) day of Career Training.

"Serenia," I whispered. She turned her head, taking a few seconds to respond. I could tell that she was holding everything together, grasping for straws of sanity. I knew she had planned to volunteer next year.

I pulled a small box out of my pocket. Taking a few shaky breaths, I got down on one knee. Her face contorted and reshaped itself. This lovely woman, who had been my friend through thick and thin, thick as thieves since infancy:

"Will you marry me?"

She gasped. I opened the box for her to see. I had been designing it for over a year: three rose gold bands entwined together with a large Serendibite gem, surrounded by Sinhalite and red Diamonds. Her mouth opened and closed, trying to grasp words, and hopefully that word was…

"Yes!"


	5. District 2 Reapings

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games.**

Calypso Mina:

It's been one year and nobody knows.

My parents definitely don't know. They've been working day in and day out, my dad as a Peacekeeper from district to district and my mom as a security specialist that travels between districts and the Capitol. When I was a child and my brother was an infant, they would take us on the road with them (and the assistance of some dotty Capitol nanny), but, when my brother reached the ripe old age of four, we were placed in the Career training center where our parents visited us about once every three months. They were here today, in the atrium with all of the other half-assed parents that pretend they know everything about the kids that they didn't raise.

And I swear if my family isn't reaped and I have to become one of the trainers that never actually won or a miner or a prostitute or god forbid a Peacekeeper, there is going to be a large dent in the training room wall.

Having an off-schedule day was a rather large deal. Our constant structure and discipline was replaced with a lot of freedom: freedom to socialize, freedom to sit wherever and eat almost whatever in the cafeteria, freedom to dress as we choose and wear make-up, freedom to see our parents, and, what I wasn't too keen on: freedom to lose all inhibition after the reapings in a large party to celebrate our tributes.

Including me, there were 6 18-year-old females left in training. These girls have been the closest things I had to sisters, and we were all quite embittered that our last year, the year where we would fight to the tooth and nail to gain the right to fight to the death, there was no volunteering allowed. I mean, sure, we got to keep our lives, but the chance of one of us getting reaped out of all the people in our district was infuriatingly miniscule.

Slipping on leggings and a large t-shirt, I stepped to open the door, thinking that everybody was asleep. To my surprise, a hand wrapped around my wrist from behind.

"Are you on board for the plan?"

I turned around and looked at the only girl that I could ever consider to be a friend. Micaiah was one of the final 6, and we all considered her the mama of the group (just never say that in front of her or she will throw a knife from 100 feet away and it'll wedge straight into your sternum). My lips twisted into a devious grin as I nodded my head in affirmation, which initiated a similar expression on her face.

With my bare feet echoing on the stone floor, I joined the flow of students that travelled from the dorms to the atrium. As Mina started smack in the middle of the alphabet, I followed the current until I spotted my brother Kayden's chestnut tuft of hair, parked across from our loveliest and dearest Mumsie and Popsicle. Kayden was 12, so the mandatory buzz cut of the official bonding of boyhood and teenhood wasn't enacted yet. While girls could do as they please, the one thing my mom requested of me was to have long hair my final reaping.

"Caly!" my mother yelled. She enveloped me into a rib-crushing hug that I responded to with a pat on the back. My dad also stood up, in the special Peacekeepers uniform that was reserved for the reaping day. If my parents noticed my rigidity, they didn't point it out, perhaps to avoid tearing the thin sheet of social convention that my parents clung so tightly to.

I sat down next to Kayden, who was the only member in this family that I actually liked. He was just reaching the age in which weapons came into the classroom, and the smile on his face when he came to dinner with his elbows scraped up from catching an arrow in archery or a large purple bruise on his head from a flyaway boomerang made he feel like the luckiest older sister in the world.

It even made the secret feel a little less painful.

We weren't much of a family for traditions, but reaping day breakfast since I turned twelve has always been fruit, orange juice, and cinnamon buns that my parents would bring in themselves. Kayden had been consumed by hunger before I arrived, as was evidenced by the sugary mess on his top lip and fingers, which, after drinking orange juice, left him with a rather odd tangerine mustache.

When I started popping all and any fruits in my mouth, my mother's tone switched from one of small talk to one that was dripping with theatrics. Most years, we would wear clothing that our Capitol sponsors would give us, but, in the last year, our parents would choose an outfit for us. And, alas, my dad pulled a parcel out of my mother's bag and handed it to me.

"Go get dressed, Caly," my mother said, not expressing her love with words but by being the toughest mama to shed a tear. As I stood up, my dad came around the table and enveloped me in a hug. I couldn't help but think that I had let them down by not having the ability to volunteer and the odds not being stacked in my favor, but, as this was the first time my dad had every hugged me, I knew that they would still be my parents even if I didn't fulfill my goals.

I walked back to my dorm, rather shocked that my parents were not only tolerable, but were actually nice today. I held the package close, hoping I could remember that my parents weren't terrible people.

"You on with the plan?" Micaiah asked. I first thought about how I would disappoint my parents after they'd been kind to me. The plan was a huge risk, something that I could be risking my life over, and there was a chance that it wouldn't pay off at all. But I had made a promise to these girls since the Quell had been announced, and if there was one thing I couldn't do, it'd be to break a promise.

"I'm in," I replied, resolute in my decision. A smile crossed all of our lips to counter the fear in our eyes. Micaiah placed one of the guns on my bed, and we went about our hygiene routine, not showing any sign to those in the hall that we were going to fuck up the reapings.

Khal Dupree:

If or when it was between Tsume and me, I knew it would be me.

Neither of us had been picked up by the training academy. Neither of us were particularly proficient in school. Neither of us possessed any spectacular skills. Despite Tsume being three years older than me, we were around the same height and build. We both were pretty well liked in school, in sports, and in social conventions both in and out of the family.

But I'm gay.

It didn't matter that I was a good friend. It didn't matter that I was always trying to be nice. It didn't matter that I was a carefree individual with an infectious smile. It didn't matter that I would go through hell and high water to give my friend, my brother, my parents, and even strangers a reprieve from their troubles. No, what mattered was that at the tender age of 11, when most boys my age were learning the ways around similarly young girls, I was bonding with a boy over how we were probably late bloomers because neither of us saw why the other guys would stare at Lucy, the only girl our age with developed breasts, in P.E. while she was doing jumping jacks.

Kida was up in the 16's section, but I still had my best friend Desiree across the rope from me in the 13's female section. We were casually chatting, neither of us worried about being reaped, in part due to the rumors of training parents paying off the Peacekeepers. Then again, assuming that the Games weren't rigged, my family could be reaped due to the tesserae.

This year's escort stood behind her podium. The bored expression on her face mirrored my own, and I didn't know which was weirder: a Capitolite that didn't look like there were no lights on upstairs, or sharing an expression with a Capitolite. Desiree whispered almost exactly what I though into my ear, which ended in both of us doubling over in a laughing fit that, much to the disdain of the people around us, carried on into the beginning of the Treaty of Treason. Hiding our grins (rather unsuccessfully), the escort dove her hand into the boys bowl. I was so sure that I wasn't the only person around here that was cocking an eyebrow at her ways.

Even in a culture where the women were generally in dominant roles, it was always customary that the ladies go first.

As her fuschia nails wrestled with the tiny slips of paper, a customary feeling of intense stomach pain overcame me. But also, like everybody else who was having this same feeling, I hid it with a cheeky half grin. I mean, there were all of maybe 10 slips in there between me and my brother, and some families had upwards are 40. Most years, what with the training academy volunteers, I wouldn't have to worry, but…

"Mr. and Mrs. Dupree."

Yep, I'm fucked.

Not even waiting for my parents, I walked into the aisle and climbed up the steps, reaching the stage before them. I was unsure if I was running on adrenaline, rage, or pure stupidity, but, judging by the fact that I had been kicked out of the house a week prior, there was little to no question about it.

My parents didn't reach the stage, but, when they refused to look me in the eye, I knew that the people who said they'd love me unconditionally just broke that promise.

I leaned against the wall of the Justice Building, with two Peacekeepers on each side of me. In an almost lunatic state, I began laughing hysterically. This situation was crazy. I was dreaming and I was going to wake up and my parents would still see me as their firecracker son that did impulsive things for laughs and ran faster than the wind but would always come back into the safe arms of his parents. I laughed until my gut hurt, until tears were leaking out of my eyes. The Peacekeepers stood in front of me now, and my misconstrued mind was wondering where the sound of guns was coming from.

Wait, guns?

The lady with her fuschia nails dropped her microphone. I peered out from behind the burly Peacekeepers and saw 6 girls, the 6 Careers who had been trained since they came out of the womb, all pointing guns at the escort.

One of the girls, Calypso, I think, picked up the microphone. Between the sound of the crowd and my heart beating in my ears, thinking somebody found me out, I could only pick up two of the words:

"Russian Roulette," she said, all six girls that had single-handedly monopolized the reapings pulling out guns and pressing the trigger. Five blood spatters tattooed themselves onto the stage.

Calypso, still cranially intact, was handcuffed by two Peacekeepers. My two Peacekeepers took me to the train. It briefly dawned on my dazed, overworked, brain that I was going into the Games with not only a killer, but a trained killer.


End file.
